Queen of Spain Blog

My doctor is great. But he really has no sense of humor. At all. During my biopsy the nurses and I were yukking it up. And I was totally appreciative that they were playing along with me. When you are getting three needles jabbed (and when I say “jabbed” I’m really not kidding…they have to MOVE them around continuously to get a good sample) in your neck any sort of humor can really help the situation. The only time my very bland doctor cracked a smile was when I had to STOP him before the third and final needle insertion because he forgot the numbing spray. When there are needles going in your neck, believe me, you REMEMBER the numbing spray comes BEFORE the needle. Anyway. Thank you nurses everywhere for making jokes.

After the biopsy many conversations took place including this one with the Kaiser:

“…yeah, but if your dead, you won’t have to worry about it…”
“Ok, no making dying jokes after I’m being tested for cancer for a second time in a year.”
“…but it was funny”
“NOT funny.”
“A little funny…”

Then he went and got tequila, ibuprofin, and chocolate. So I guess I’ll keep him.

It’s naptime in the royal kingdom. Count Waffles the Terrible is trying desperately to squeeze himself into the pillowcase currently on his father’s king sized pillow.

“What are you doing?”
“Dis Daddys Piww-ooh?”
“Yes, that’s Daddy’s.”
“I sweep in it?”
“Sure, if you want to.”
“It smell like Daddy’s stinky toots.”
“The pillow smells like Daddy’s stinky toots?”
“Yes” Gets himself inside pillowcase and snuggles.
“I miss him. I miss Daddy’s stinky toots.”
“Goodnight Mamma. Sweet Dreams.”
“Goodnight Daddy stinky piww-oh.”
And he naps there now.

As I get ready for my own medical drama tomorrow, its nothing compared to what the Barron family is going through. Everyone who reads this today. Please. Please. I beg you. Do something. Say a prayer (and that is a big request coming from me, because I’m not a believer) send a check. Send your thoughts. Little Cruz, who is just about the Princess’s age, may be in his toughest hour yet. This email was just forwarded to me and was written by Cruz’s mother, who is keeping vigil at his hospital bed. Grab a tissue. And click on my link to the Cruz Fund on the left. Or click THIS. Please.

His breath is a rattle finishing with a whistle. Cruz’s body works with every inhale and collapses with every exhale. My confidence is directly tied to the vital sign monitor (“sats” monitor would be the hospital jargon.) How is a clear breath able to push through to its destined place? Isn’t there too much rattle, too much blockage? According to the monitor, we’re OK for right now. Mucositis is the term. It’s an ugly finish to an ugly treatment. We are at day 2 of a probable 7-10 day stretch of intensive side effect illness. Cruz is battling a high fever and working for every breath he takes. The details are troubling but he is stable for now.

So now we wait. We wait for Cruz’s new cells to engraph into his system and reproduce to become his new White Blood Cells. We wait for his body to heal through this horrible mucositis (sores running from his throat down to his rear end.) And finally, we wait for the day we hear that Cruz is cancer free. One day at a time will take us there. I am thankful for so much. I am especially grateful for our army of Cruz soldiers who remind us on a daily basis that we are not alone and that everything will be all right!

Have I mentioned I know everything there is to know about everything? (somewhere my husband is saying “duh” and rolling his eyes) We really need to have WebMD and anything medically related taken off the internet. Because after exactly 6 minutes of web surfing
I’ve diagnosed myself with thyroid cancer and I’ll be performing surgery tomorrow.

It starts innocently enough. You want to check out if your baby’s rash is something you should wake up your pediatrician for at 3am, or you need to know if your toddler’s head wound requires an ER visit or a simple ice pack. And then you go for the hard stuff: reading medical journals and studies into the wee hours because you are convinced that despite years of medical school, you can learn more than your doctor in one, manic sit-down at the computer.

I have a thyroid nodule. I was diagnosed when I got pregnant with the Princess. Many tests were done and I was told it was benign. Whew. I admit I showed up at doctor’s appointments with printed webpages. I told myself I was being an informed patient. Although I’m fairly sure the chief of Head and Neck Surgery at UCLA would change informed patient to colossal pain in the ass.

A few weeks ago I got a phone call that my nodule had changed. So I did what any sane person does. I hopped on the good old internet. I came across tons of info. My favorite being the happy sites that gave me graphics like this one on the right—————–

And then I got to the Chief Justice William Rehnquist stories. You know he’s dead, right? And it all went downhill from there.

So instead of me being, oh, I don’t know, sane and responsible, I think it would just be easier if we got rid of any medical related type websites. Then I won’t be running to the Kaiser out of breathe swearing on my internet medical degree that I am dying, the Princess has small pox, and the Count has fluid on the brain. Agreed????????????

I get a second round of needles in the neck on Wednesday. So I guess I’ll hold off on my home surgery until those allegedly qualified people look at the results. Damn professionals…think they know everything…

I have a problem. And its not a problem like I need to save the world problem. Its a girl problem.
26 months and counting of breastfeeding and my boobs are sagging. 19 months with the Count. 7 months and counting with the Princess. And my nipples, I swear to the Goddess of Breasts, are actually pointing DOWN.
Go ahead and tell me this is just part of life. Go ahead and remind me to grow old gracefully. Go ahead and say that I’m a mother and this happens. But I’m ONLY 30. Ok, ok, 31 next month, but according the Kaiser I’m 29 forever. And yes, I’ve had two kids. And yes, I’m only 7 months post pardum. BUT MY BOOBS ARE SAGGING. That’s not supposed to happen until I’m like, a grandma…right? Right???
I, um, don’t have small boobs. I never have. I hit puberty and suddenly I was VERY popular with the boys. They were there and huge from day one. Not like, I get a backache huge, but huge. So I guess that’s part of the problem. Two kids later and those perky knockers are now droopy blobs of flesh.
I know I’m still carrying that pregnancy weight. So I’ve currently got some body issues (who doesn’t, right?) but I never thought I’d seriously consider plastic surgery. I know, I know…but I’m seriously considering plastic surgery. I just want them to go back where they were. I don’t want to enhance anything. I just want them to sit up again.
The Kaiser is all for this. DUH. But he seems to think its the same as me putting makeup on (hahaha) in the morning or getting my ears pierced. No big deal. I couldn’t disagree more.
What kind of body issue will I be setting up for my daughter if she knows Mommy got a boob job?
What kind of person am I to GET a boob job?
Do I really want to resort to a surgical procedure, when I can just buy a wonderbra and say “Dammit! I’m a MOTHER…THESE ARE WORKING BREASTS!”???
I’ve never been a girl with low self esteem or any real body issue problems. Even at my heaviest, I’ve always been confident. But step out of the shower, look in the full length mirror NAKED and see your tits facing south…well, suddenly I was my Grandmother. I distinctly remember sitting in her bedroom when I was young while she changed. And seeing her breasts. First, I remember how big they were (thanks for that part g-ma) and then, I remembered how they had stretch marks on the top, how they seemed like deflated balloons, and how they sagged to nearly her belly button. I must have paid such close attention because I knew those suckers would be on my chest one day.
And now, as a modern day girl, I can actually fix them. I think. Or do I just live with them? Like my grandmother. And her grandmother before her. In the meantime, I think I’ll go buy a few new bras. Hrrrmmmppph.

That last post just bit me in the ass. I now have the flu (I blame my sickly children) and I can’t do anything BUT sit around and read blogs. So I’ll give you the highlight of my day, an ode to my shower, really.

I love my shower. I love to shower. I love being in my shower. My shower is the only place I am ever, truly alone. Sure, every so often a little person invades my shower. But mostly, its the only place in the house where I steal just a few minutes of peace and quiet. No one is hanging on me. No one is poking me. No one is talking to me. No one is touching me.

I’ll let you in on a little secret. Sometimes, shhhh…don’t tell…I finish the shower essentials and I just stand. I just stand with my head against the wall. Just for a few, extra, blissful, childless minutes. Sure, I can sometimes hear the crying on the other side of the shower. But that doesn’t stop me from just standing under that happy spray of solitude.

Ok, so when you step out of the shower the cold smacks you and the kids inevitable smear something sticky on your not even dry body…but…but…for a few minutes…just a few…it was peaceful.

I vote today everyone stop reading blogs. Stop checking emails. Stop goofing around the computer. Get up. Get out. Go spend time with your family. Don’t hide infront of the computer today. Go be with the ones you love. Even if they are driving you crazy. Have a good weekend everyone.

All my problems have melted away with a glass of wine and a good, old fashion scrub session. After the fiasco that was this week, I’ve pulled my proverbial shit together and cleaned house. Literally.

When my life is in chaos, it seems my house is in chaos. So I started in the only place I knew where to start in getting this kingdom back in royal form-I cleaned. Yesterday I dropped Count Waffles the Terrible off at nursery school, strapped the Princess in her swing, and scrubbed the Palace from top to bottom, until I actually made myself bleed. And I gotta tell ya, it felt goooood. I sweat. I smelled of cleaning products. I had goo under my nails from scraping unknown substances off floors and counters. And I felt fabulous.

And with one manic cleaning session I’m back on top. The Count came home from school, ate lunch, and napped without a struggle. Princess was a sweet pea all day, and the Kaiser came home from work early and played and played with the kids. Mommy and Daddy even got some much needed “alone” time when BOTH children actually remained sleeping for more than 7 minutes at a time. What a difference a day makes.

Later in the night, when I was telling the Kaiser what a great day we had I realized something. He must dread walking through that door every night. Not knowing if he’s coming home to Wednesday’s lunatic ala Andrea Yates Queen or if he’ll stumble upon a spotless house with happy inhabitants. That’s enough to make you want to go to a bar after work, like my father. And his father before him.

I also have the knack for springing I Love Lucy type ideas on him all day. Hatching plans to become an overnight blogging success, write a novel, buy a new house (that one worked), have a third child, get a dog, etc. etc. etc.

At least, in the end, you can’t claim life with me is dull. I’m going to go clean up breakfast now. Then maybe I’ll take the kids to the zoo. And knit everyone Christmas presents, and start that novel. Did anyone see today’s real estate section…